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    <title>1. CHAPTER XVII</title>
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    <div class="chapter" id="id1041063"><h2>1. CHAPTER XVII</h2>


<p id="id1041068"><span id="id582865"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->

Mrs. Weston’s friends were all made happy by her safety;
and if the satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased
to Emma, it was by knowing her to be the mother of a little girl. 
She had been decided in wishing for a Miss Weston.  She would
not acknowledge that it was with any view of making a match
for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella’s sons; but she was
convinced that a daughter would suit both father and mother best. 
It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew older—
and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years hence—to have
his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense, the freaks
and the fancies of a child never banished from home; and Mrs. Weston—
no one could doubt that a daughter would be most to her; and it
would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to teach,
should not have their powers in exercise again.
</p>

<p id="id1041071"><span id="id582873"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me,”
she continued—“like La Baronne d’Almane on La Comtesse d’Ostalis,
in Madame de Genlis’ Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall now see
her own little Adelaide educated on a more perfect plan.”
</p>

<p id="id1041054"><span id="id582880"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“That is,” replied Mr. Knightley, “she will indulge her even more
than she did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all. 
It will be the only difference.”
</p>

<p id="id1041086"><span id="id582892"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Poor child!” cried Emma; “at that rate, what will become of her?”
</p>

<p id="id1041092"><span id="id582902"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Nothing very bad.—The fate of thousands.  She will be disagreeable
in infancy, and correct herself as she grows older.  I am losing
all my bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma. 
I, who am owing all my happiness to you, would not it be horrible
ingratitude in me to be severe on them?”
</p>

<p id="id1041095"><span id="id582909"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Emma laughed, and replied:  “But I had the assistance of all
your endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. 
I doubt whether my own sense would have corrected me without it.”
</p>

<p id="id1041080"><span id="id582922"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Do you?—I have no doubt.  Nature gave you understanding:—
Miss Taylor gave you principles.  You must have done well. 
My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good.  It was
very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?—
and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done
in a disagreeable manner.  I do not believe I did you any good. 
The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest
affection to me.  I could not think about you so much without doating
on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors,
have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least.”
</p>

<p id="id1041105"><span id="id582929"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I am sure you were of use to me,” cried Emma.  “I was very often
influenced rightly by you—oftener than I would own at the time. 
I am very sure you did me good.  And if poor little Anna Weston is
to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much
for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her
when she is thirteen.”
</p>

<p id="id1041110"><span id="id582935"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one
of your saucy looks—‘Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so;
papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor’s leave’—something which,
you knew, I did not approve.  In such cases my interference was giving
you two bad feelings instead of one.”
</p>

<p id="id1041113"><span id="id582942"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“What an amiable creature I was!—No wonder you should hold
my speeches in such affectionate remembrance.”
</p>

<p id="id1041107"><span id="id582952"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“‘Mr. Knightley.’—You always called me, ‘Mr. Knightley;’ and,
from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.—And yet it is formal. 
I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what.”
</p>

<p id="id1041127"><span id="id582966"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I remember once calling you ‘George,’ in one of my amiable fits,
about ten years ago.  I did it because I thought it would offend you;
but, as you made no objection, I never did it again.”
</p>

<p id="id1041136"><span id="id582979"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“And cannot you call me ‘George’ now?”
</p>

<p id="id1041140"><span id="id582988"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Impossible!—I never can call you any thing but ‘Mr. Knightley.’ 
I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton,
by calling you Mr. K.—But I will promise,” she added presently,
laughing and blushing—“I will promise to call you once by your
Christian name.  I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess
where;—in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse.”
</p>

<p id="id1041144"><span id="id582995"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one
important service which his better sense would have rendered her,
to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all
her womanly follies—her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith;
but it was too tender a subject.—She could not enter on it.—
Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them.  This, on his side,
might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma
was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion,
from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. 
She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances,
they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her
intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did,
on Isabella’s letters.  He might observe that it was so.  The pain
of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little
inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.
</p>

<p id="id1041142"><span id="id583005"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could
be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits,
which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to
be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not
appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.—
Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet
had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have
escaped her.  Emma’s comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on,
by Harriet’s being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be
a month at least.  Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down
in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back.
</p>

<p id="id1041150"><span id="id583003"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“John does not even mention your friend,” said Mr. Knightley. 
“Here is his answer, if you like to see it.”
</p>

<p id="id1041157"><span id="id583020"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. 
Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive
to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing
that her friend was unmentioned.
</p>

<p id="id1041166"><span id="id583030"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“John enters like a brother into my happiness,” continued Mr. Knightley,
“but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have,
likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from
making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather
cool in her praise.  But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes.”
</p>

<p id="id1041169"><span id="id583037"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“He writes like a sensible man,” replied Emma, when she had read
the letter.  “I honour his sincerity.  It is very plain that he
considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side,
but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy
of your affection, as you think me already.  Had he said any thing
to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him.”
</p>

<p id="id1041173"><span id="id583044"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“My Emma, he means no such thing.  He only means—”
</p>

<p id="id1041159"><span id="id583053"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,”
interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile—“much less, perhaps,
than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve
on the subject.”
</p>

<p id="id1041186"><span id="id583067"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Emma, my dear Emma—”
</p>

<p id="id1041189"><span id="id583075"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh!“ she cried with more thorough gaiety, ”if you fancy your
brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in
the secret, and hear his opinion.  Depend upon it, he will be much
farther from doing you justice.  He will think all the happiness,
all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit
on mine.  I wish I may not sink into ‘poor Emma’ with him at once.—
His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther.“
</p>

<p id="id1041192"><span id="id583082"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Ah!“ he cried, ”I wish your father might be half as easily convinced
as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give,
to be happy together.  I am amused by one part of John’s letter—
did you notice it?—where he says, that my information did not take
him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing
something of the kind.“
</p>

<p id="id1041197"><span id="id583089"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having
some thoughts of marrying.  He had no idea of me.  He seems perfectly
unprepared for that.”
</p>

<p id="id1041200"><span id="id583101"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Yes, yes—but I am amused that he should have seen so far into
my feelings.  What has he been judging by?—I am not conscious
of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare
him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.—
But it was so, I suppose.  I dare say there was a difference when I
was staying with them the other day.  I believe I did not play
with the children quite so much as usual.  I remember one evening
the poor boys saying, ‘Uncle seems always tired now.’”
</p>

<p id="id1041208"><span id="id583108"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons’
reception of it tried.  As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently
recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse’s visits, Emma having it in view
that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause,
resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.—
But how to break it to her father at last!—She had bound herself
to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley’s absence, or when it
came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must
have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time,
and follow up the beginning she was to make.—She was forced
to speak, and to speak cheerfully too.  She must not make it a more
decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. 
She must not appear to think it a misfortune.—With all the spirits
she could command, she prepared him first for something strange,
and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation
could be obtained—which, she trusted, would be attended with
no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all—
she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield
would receive the constant addition of that person’s company
whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston,
best in the world.
</p>

<p id="id1041212"><span id="id583115"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Poor man!—it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried
earnestly to dissuade her from it.  She was reminded, more than once,
of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it
would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of
poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.—But it would not do.  Emma hung
about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that
he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages
taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: 
but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there;
she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but
for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal
the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once
got used to the idea.—Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?—
He would not deny that he did, she was sure.—Whom did he ever want
to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?—Who was so useful to him,
who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?—
Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?—Would not he
like to have him always on the spot?—Yes.  That was all very true. 
Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see
him every day;—but they did see him every day as it was.—Why could
not they go on as they had done?
</p>

<p id="id1041215"><span id="id583121"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome,
the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.—
To Emma’s entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley’s,
whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome;
and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.—
They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters
of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready,
on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most
serviceable light—first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one—
well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations
to Mr. Woodhouse’s mind.—It was agreed upon, as what was to be;
and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that
it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself
which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other—
in another year or two, perhaps—it might not be so very bad
if the marriage did take place.
</p>

<p id="id1041218"><span id="id583130"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she
said to him in favour of the event.—She had been extremely surprized,
never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her;
but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had
no scruple in urging him to the utmost.—She had such a regard
for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma;
and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable
a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance,
so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed
as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature,
and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having
thought of it, and wished it long ago.—How very few of those men
in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own
home for Hartfield!  And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear
with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!—
The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always
felt in her husband’s plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank
and Emma.  How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had
been a continual impediment—less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than
by herself—but even he had never been able to finish the subject
better than by saying—“Those matters will take care of themselves;
the young people will find a way.”  But here there was nothing to be
shifted off in a wild speculation on the future.  It was all right,
all open, all equal.  No sacrifice on any side worth the name. 
It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself,
and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.
</p>

<p id="id1041221"><span id="id583137"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections
as these, was one of the happiest women in the world.  If any thing
could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would
soon have outgrown its first set of caps.
</p>

<p id="id1041224"><span id="id583147"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread;
and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes
were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.—
He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all
the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing;
and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he
had always foreseen it.
</p>

<p id="id1041194"><span id="id583156"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“It is to be a secret, I conclude,” said he.  “These matters are
always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. 
Only let me be told when I may speak out.—I wonder whether Jane has
any suspicion.”
</p>

<p id="id1041242"><span id="id583154"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on
that point.  He told her the news.  Was not she like a daughter,
his eldest daughter?—he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present,
it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton,
immediately afterwards.  It was no more than the principals were
prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known
at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking
of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle,
with great sagacity.
</p>

<p id="id1041234"><span id="id583177"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
In general, it was a very well approved match.  Some might think him,
and others might think her, the most in luck.  One set might
recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield
for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements
among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious
objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.—There,
the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction.  Mr. Elton
cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped “the
young lady’s pride would now be contented;” and supposed “she had
always meant to catch Knightley if she could;” and, on the point
of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, “Rather he than I!”—
But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.—“Poor Knightley!
poor fellow!—sad business for him.—She was extremely concerned;
for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.—
How could he be so taken in?—Did not think him at all in love—
not in the least.—Poor Knightley!—There would be an end of all
pleasant intercourse with him.—How happy he had been to come and dine
with them whenever they asked him!  But that would be all over now.—
Poor fellow!—No more exploring parties to Donwell made for her. 
Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on
every thing.—Extremely disagreeable!  But she was not at all sorry
that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.—Shocking plan,
living together.  It would never do.  She knew a family near Maple
Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end
of the first quarter.
</p>



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